Houseguests? How many, I wonder?
Hello from the flooded wastelands of Queensland. I live in Brisbane and yesterday was the worst day of my life.

It started like any other day in the past month. I dropped my husband off at the bus station and spent the morning running errands, dragging two grumbling kids, in the torrential downpour that has become a regular fixture in our lives of late. The first sign that something was seriously wrong was a lack of signal on my mobile phone when I tried to check in with my husband.

Odd, I thought.

The next sign was when I overheard a whispered conversation between two shop employees. "The city has been evacuated."

Which city? I wondered. I assumed the two people had family in one of the many cities in the North which is being evacuated by the Army.

I get home, and the phone rings. It's my mother. She tells me that the city being evacuated is Brisbane. She's heading home. I wish her luck and tell her to call me as soon as she can. I call my husband at his office. No answer. I try his mobile. No signal. I check the email. Nothing.

I turn on the news. Fuck. Me. Devastation on a scale that I cannot summon the talent to describe to you. I heard the words of the Hindenburg announcer. "Oh the humanity." So sudden and so devastating.

The next five hours were the longest of my life. When my husband arrived at the door, drookit and with a solemn face, I felt the most intense sensation of relief of my life. He had walked 15 kilometers to get home, some of it through fast running water.

His story was of an entire city's rapid descent into chaos. He saw people punching each other for a place in a public transport queue that was 150 deep waiting for buses and trains that never came. The Army was on the ground. Evacuation centers have been established.

My Mum's still caught in that, I thought.

Two hours later, the phone rings. It's Mum. She's almost hysterical with relief. Her house is fine. Her cat is pissed at her. All is well.

So now we all knuckle down and see just how big this flood is going to be. The flood waters will probably peak in two days time.

So back to the house guests. We are on a hill. Our nearby family will be coming to us if they have to evacuate. We have 140 litres of drinking water, 3000 litres of rainwater and pool which will soon be used as our laundry and bathroom. I just hope it's enough.

I am caught between dreading the influx of reluctant house guests and welcoming the added manpower to see off looters.

The power is probably going to be shut off soon. Wish us luck.

UPDATE: Power just came back on. Yay! Brisbane river peaked today. Hopefully it's just a wait-and-see job and then a massive cleanup. Thanks for your support people. It means a lot.
(Que?, Wed 12 Jan 2011, 0:48, 22 replies)

A mate's ex
When I was at college, a friend of mine was going out with a girl who I'd best describe as a nightmare. She was bossy, melodramatic, manipulative and self centered. She was also very manish in looks but that's anouther story.

After an evening of pizza and video games, she demands we play pictionary, so we sit around the table and give it a go. This is turns out to be pretty good fun, one of the group is pretty slow at times, so he makes us laugh a fair bit. After a particularly baffling attempt to draw a picture of a space shuttle we all laugh heartily. I lean forward on the extendable table, head in hand laughing. I shift my weight and CRACK! "Shit!" I think "I'm not sure what's happened but I'm pretty sure it's my fault. Play it cool mong goose, you might just get away with it." I slowly look up, acting casual, I lift my eyes to see all faces on me looking stunned. Realising I may be rumbled, I take my last roll of the dice.

"Holy shit!" I say, my face a mask of shock and confusion. "Did anyone else hear that? What the hell was it?" I ask whilst making an outside run for the 2004 best actor Oscar. An awkward silence followed, broken by the man beast my mate was whacking up with. "You, breaking my table."

Further inspection of the table revealed I had infact broken a runner for the extension, effectively ending the family's ability to host a diner party. The host put this down to the table being properly made. I considered suggesting the wood may not have been cared for and had rotten but I held my tounge.
(Mong goose, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 23:22, 3 replies)

In which Chickenlady cocks up guest bathrooms
I don’t seem to be a good houseguest when it comes to bathrooms….

When I was first seeing the ex-MrChickenlady he lived with his brother and sister-in-law in a large rambling manor house in the countryside with no neighbours for miles around. I’d gone to stay for the weekend – large hearty meals, vast quantities of wine, long walks and evil hangovers - rather like The Archers but with less death.
The brother and SiL prepared a lovely meal one night, we all got extremely drunk and staggered off to bed. The ex’s bedroom was at the opposite end of the house from the brother and SiL and both had their own large bathrooms. After some drunken fumblings and beery farts (him, not me), I needed to pee. Tottering into the bathroom in very high heels and little else I locked the door behind me – no, I don’t know why either. I peed – that’s what I’d come in for, washed my hands – even when drunk I always remember that cleanliness is next to Godliness – the nuns taught me well – and I went to unlock the door and return to bed – maybe even take the heels off if I could negotiate the tiny buckles and straps around the ankle.
So, there I am, entirely starkers except what are best described as Porn Queen Shoes, attempting to turn a very old key in a rusty hole…ahem…
I tried and nothing happened – too much wine, probably. So I tried again – nothing. Then I decided to put a little more force into it – I planted my feet wide, bent at the knees, grasped the key in both hands and pushed hard towards the right….
And fell over, hitting my head against the wall as the key broke in the lock.
I was trapped. It was 2am, I was in the middle of the English countryside, in a house of drunken toffs, naked except some obscene shoes, I had a lump on my head and very little chance of rescue until a large Labrador began to lick someone’s hairy balls at 6.15am. Marvellous. So I began to shout and moan – that always wakes the neighbours up. Success! The ex woke up and once he’d worked out that this wasn’t some Challenge Anneka type sex game, he tried to open the door – except all he did was fumble at the lock, wiggle the handle and push a bit – the story of my married life….
Soon his brother was woken up too and between the two of them they decided to rescue me through the window using a long fruit picking ladder that they had out in the barn. Within hours they were shouting from outside to open up the bathroom window. Before this turned into a Carry-On farce I grabbed a large bath towel and attempted to cover my dignity with the striped threadbare piece of terrycloth which had probably served both brothers well in many nativity scenes.
Opening the window I was faced with the leering grin of the ex’s brother – of course, the ex was scared of heights. Climbing onto the toilet seat I managed to manoeuvre my increasingly cold self over the window sill, out into the chilly freedom of the night….in high heels, no mean feat. The brother was by now halfway down the ladder – holding it firm, he said. As the icy blasts whipped around my nether regions I could hear laboured breathing coming from below me – the cold air apparently made his ‘asthma’ play up. He carefully guided my Porn Queen shoed feet onto each rung – even when some of the rungs were missing and I had to lower myself almost onto his head.
I made it safely down to the ground, the ex was by now having a fag and scratching his balls – I believe the Labrador was woken by all of this too. The brother was grinning and tugging his dressing gown around him and said I was welcome to come to stay anytime – even if they did need to buy a new door for the bathroom now.
Skip forward in time some five or six years and the ex’s brother and SiL had young children, as did the ex and I. We’d all gone to stay for one of the kid’s birthday’s – mountains of cake, lashings of ginger beer, and the SiL and I quietly and desperately pissed on gin mixed with Tesco Value Orange Squash. The house had a large Aga in the kitchen on which they used to drape damp washing during the winter months which gave the room a vague aroma of damp dog and lavender. Sometimes it was baby vomit and lavender. After about six or seven Montessori gin slings I needed a pee – this is a common theme it would seem….
I retreated to the downstairs loo avoiding the bow and arrows, lego and brio, safely locked the smallest room door behind me and had a satisfying pee that would have shamed Red Rum. Then I turned to the toilet roll – no lady likes to shake and go – and there to my horror I found nothing. I believe Blue Peter had been showing how to make your own 4x4 the day before – no doubt one of the kids had requisitioned the toilet roll in an effort to become a proto-Jeremy Clarkson.
I was faced with a dilemma – shake and be damp or…..although the loo was a small room, it wasn’t that small – they kept their washing machine in there and sitting waiting was a pile of sheets and towels. I grabbed a handtowel used it and returned it to the pile – it was about to be washed anyway, wasn’t it?
Erm…no. The SiL went in after me, retrieved the basket of washing and draped it around the Aga. As it slowly began to steam I suggested we go out for a walk….but not before the ex’s brother came in from the garden, washed his hands and face and called out for a hand towel.

I don't think I was cut out for the posh life.
( chickenlady b3ta's very own Elizabeth Taylor, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 20:17, 7 replies)

let's get evicted!
way back in the mists of 1993, i moved into my first place away from my parents. it was a bedsit, pretty dire, but all utilities were covered in a £5 weekly payment to the landlord, my mum's boss.
i really didn't like it there, but didn't want to go back to living with my folks. i started to experience something i'd never felt before: depression. i spent most of my time in my room, drinking and smoking, trying to obliterate each day as it came along. then, i hit upon an idea, one that would allow me to move back home without it seeming like i'd given up. i'd get myself evicted! fuck, yeah!
there was, however, one slight flaw in my otherwise brilliant plan: mum's boss would never evict me, unless i completely destroyed the place. when she gets going, my mum is like ma bacon on a mission. plus, if he threw me out, she'd accuse him of picking on me and walk out, taking several off his other staff(who are also my relatives) with her. i'd have to find a way of getting thrown out that was good enough, but didn't look like my fault.
that's when i started having guests to stay over.
my mate debbie being there 3 times a week, using her c.b and interfering with everyone's tellies didn't work. nor did letting my boyfriend stay for 6 weeks. i was getting desperate.
then it hit me. how could i have been so stupid? a party! a massive, destructive, never-to-be-forgotten party! if that didn't work, nothing would!

it worked all right.

one bloke* smashed a bottle over his mate's head, mixing blood, glass and booze which went all over the hallway floor. they continued fighting outside, breaking the wooden railings. my best mate and her fella barricaded themselves in one of the communal bathrooms, where i'm pretty sure they spent much of the night shagging. they couldn't use my bathroom, as another girl and her fella had locked themselves in there as soon as they arrived. they managed to knock a 5 litre tin of white emulsion over, but were clearly too busy to pick it up again. they came out of the bathroom several hours later, exhausted, disheveled and covered in paint. the bathroom was pretty trashed, too.
the funniest thing to happen that night came about because of my love for pickled gherkins. i'd managed to buy a catering-sized "jar" of cocktail gherkins. one of the lads found them and The Gherkin War began. from behind sofa, chairs, wardrobe, cabinets and bed, gherkins were being flung like vinegary green missiles. for over an hour the battle raged, until every gherkin was mush and every partygoer was covered in vinegar and bits of green gunk. fuck, it was good.
within 48 hours, i'd been given my marching orders. mum welcomed me home, blaming my friends for everything, just as i knew she would.
when i finally moved into a proper flat 6 years later, i was much** more sensible.

*i never invited either of these blokes
**well, a bit, at least
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 19:52, Reply)

Our worst house guest
was actually our landlord. He pretended to be a vampire so that we'd be late returning our video player. Actually now that I think about it I think it was our landlord's identical twin or something.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 19:46, 9 replies)

Nick
You know the scene - you've just left University; you're penniless and homeless and most likely jobless as well. You're also achingly unwilling to let go of all your friends and drinking buddies with whom you've spent several years imbibing watered-down piss under the alias of 'student beer'.

Luckily, I had a girlfriend to fall back on, and she was happy to take me into her house (in which she was living rent-free), while I sought gainful employment. Unluckily, she hadn't banked on me bringing Nick with me.

We knew Nick lived in the same town, but we weren't banking on the fact that his parents were about to kick him out of their house due to him being a fat, gormless slob. So, once the summer was over, there he stands on the doorstep, cap in hand, looking for somewhere to live.

Unfortunately, we hadn't at the time seen fit set any house rules. Many of them, we wouldn't thought were necessary to set, such as 'please don't crap in the back garden' or 'please don't throw your spliff ends into the guinea pig hutch' or 'please don't vomit on the washing-up and then neglect to clean it'. Needless to say, these were among Nick's crimes. He was soon confined to his room, a pit of gluttony from which errant farts and skid-marked laundry occasionally emanated.

I'd managed to get myself a bit of part-time work running a mobile disco rig and playing lounge piano, which meant I was out most evenings, and after about the first fortnight, my dearest other half declared herself unable to stay in the house while Nick blared some dub-dance rubbish from his room at all hours. I'd known the guy for long years, and knew he was a bit of a slob, but our friendship was beginning to become severely tested. He would happily come to slob around downstairs with me while the lady was at work, but got grumpy and anti-social as soon as she came home. Barely a month into his tenancy, we were making plans for him to leave.

The final straw came on one freezing night around Halloween when he woke us up by having a wank. Not a major issue, normally, but Nick wasn't just pulling the bratwurst in his bedroom. No, fuelled by dozens of tequila shots at the pub, he was having a wank in the front garden. In full view of anyone passing by.

I wasn't working that night and had treated myself to an early night. The first I knew of it was a hideous whispered: "ousgg! Wake up!", and I roused myself to see my betrothed staring open-mouthed out of the window. He was standing over her collection of lawn-ornaments, mostly cheap tat, but there was one artifact which she was very fond of - a granite ornamental well belonging to her late grandmother, one around which she had frolicked as a toddler, and her sole inheritance. It was a precious and sentimental artifact and wasn't unknown for her to take a tin of Pledge to it during the summer.

As I opened the window to call out to Nick, the offender still pounding furiously on his manmeat, he gasped, pulled a face like a pig trying to solve a difficult crossword and deposited teaspoons of baby jam onto the roof of the much-loved well. My wife-to-be sobbed her heart out and hid her face and I watched with rising bile as Nick attempted to remove the offending blob by smearing it with his T-shirt. This made it all the worse because he was just spreading it out into a big, sticky puddle. It would have been better if he'd just let it dry out and pick it off. I would later have to take a pressure-washer to the poor stone-ware.

Pushing open the window, I yelled: "Get your fucking arse inside, now!" as my sweetheart howled in new paroxyms of digust. Putting on a dressing gown, I marched downstairs to confront the porcine-faced offender.

"Nick, you're going to have to leave this house tomorrow!" I bellowed.

"Why?" he asked, a picture of innocence.

"We've put up with your disgusting habits for long enough, but this time you've over-stained your well-cum!"
( ousgg is not seeking approval, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 19:01, 6 replies)

I think it's me....
...that is the worst housemate ever. The following is ALL absolutely true, much as I wish it wasn't. I'm not coping very well.

I work away from home during the week, necessitating me to find lodgings, something which I have never done before. I didn't fancy a flat, because I'm crap at being organised enough to pay lots of bills - one payment a month suits me fine, and anyway, I'd rather have some company.

I registered on one of the many "find a place to stay" websites, and viewed half a dozen (mostly) unsuitable rooms/landlords and was starting to despair of finding somewhere. Then, out of the blue, through the same website, I receive an email from Julie, inviting me to come and have a look at her spare room. I head over after work, and knock on the door; it's a nice house in a nice area. The door opens and there's Julie, tall, shapely, long dark hair, fabulous eyes and a smile to die for. The room's perfect, and she tells me she's 30, single, has been for 3 years; she's never had a lodger before but needs must. I can't believe my luck. We chat, have a laugh, seems this could be ideal, the deal is struck and I move in a week later.

I thought Julie was gorgeous, but being 13 years her senior and feeling that she was way out of my league anyway, I never held out any hope of anything other than having an attractive friend to hang out with. We get on great; she's started cooking for us both, which was not part of the original deal. I do little things for her around the house, clean & tidy etc. We spend the evenings watching TV and relaxing - it's all good. I fly home on fridays after work and come back on the sunday evening.

Then, one sunday 4 weeks in, having got off the plane, I receive a text from Julie; "Hiya pidge, when will you be back? Can you get me a bottle of wine on the way?". Julie likes a glass of wine in the evening, so this wasn't extraordinary. I duly turn up with a bottle of wine, and am greeted with a vey affectionate hug. "Thanks honey!" and she wiggles off into the front room. She's in her dressing gown, which again isnt unusual, most evenings she has a bath. I dump my bags, grab a cup of tea and sit down on the other sofa in the front room. After a while of sunday evening TV, Julie asks me "what do you think of me?"...gulp! what do I say? Do I maintain my dignity and keep my burning candle to myself? Or do I put myself up for rejection?

"I think you're very pretty, Julie, gorgeous in fact." She smiles, and we resume watching the box. After anothe half hour or so, Julie asks me about a female friend that I text regularly; "she's just a friend, I've known her for 20 years", I say. "What would you do if she wanted sex with you?" asks Julie. I'm a bit stunned. "I'd be horrified! She's a friend..! It would be weird...!" I reply, and mumble out some very unthought-out responses. Julie appears to mull this over. "What if someone offered you 'no-strings-sex', what would you do?" she enquires next... oh god! "Julie,quite honestly, that sort of thing just doesn't happen to me.. ". I'm feeling quite nervous now. "What if I offered you no-strings sex?" she says and stares at me intently....

My brain immediately turns to mush, my legs to jelly. The most gorgeous woman that I have quietly held a candle for is offering me a boy's dream. "I....err...um...." With that, she stands up, throws off her dressing gown to reveal her fabulous naked form, crosses the living room and jumps on me, kissing me passionately. It's heaven. We sleep together that night, and I spend the next couple of weeks sleeping in her bed. We cuddle & hug and the world is good. I'm feeling so good, after years of rejection.

Fast forward to the beginning of December this year, about 3 weeks after the events above. I return to Julie's house on a Sunday evening, greeting her with a hug. "Hello you! How's your weekend been?" I say. "Oh not bad! I went out clubbing on Saturday night and met a bloke, an italian guy, VERY sexy...." At that point the world stopped for me. "Eh?" Julie looks at me as though I've missed something very simple. "I met this guy. He's really cute." My face obviously betrays my absolute desolation. "What's up?" she asks, "we were no-strings, I could have NOT told you about this guy.." I can't think. My world has just been smashed. No strings... yes, thats what she said...but how could she do this?

Italian guy never calls her, but the dream has been smashed. She goes clubbing, trying to pick up "fit guys", it's only a matter of time before one comes home with her. I withdraw into my shell, I cry a lot. I want to pack up my things and find somewhere else to live; in fact I have once already, but she was so upset (as was I) I came back. Trouble is, is it me she was sad to lose, or a mug of a lodger she could manipulate and the rent each month? Moving away means not seeing Julie ever again, and I would miss her as a friend that I have shared so much with. I am absolutely heartbroken and have no idea what to do for the best. Please help me.
(SausageWarrior destination Zululand, come on boys jump in the van, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 18:49, 28 replies)

The People's Republic of Shithole
When we were students, my brother and I lived in a house owned by our mother (who lived far away) and rented out a room to my best friends from high school. He was, sadly, not the best of tenants. He was an avid socialist and put his ideology into practice by helping himself to any food in the kitchen, regardless of whose it was. He rarely contributed to grocery shopping but would eat the lion's share of whatever we bought. He lived off of his student loans, so he only had money at the beginning of the semester (when we'd eat like kings, admittedly), but rarely had a job, instead spending his spare time protesting and putting up posters.

His personal habits were also suspect. He would often hang out in the living room in his underwear watching TV with his black lab licking his belly button (which it did with disturbing frequency and vigor). He picked a corner of the dining room in which to throw his used beer bottles, breaking them against the radiator there. Truth be told, though, none of us was living a healthy existence and the place was a shit hole as none of us was motivated to keep it clean. It was a low point of all of our lives and depression didn't help. I recall spending a couple days sleeping on the couch. Our roommate mournfully lamented, "Eric didn't get up today." Of course, I have never had more fun than I did during this period of my life. We had a language made of references to our favorite movies, songs, and books and our perfectly synced senses of humor made our lives like some sort of dark comedy. We daydreamed about starting a band and calling it "Karl Marx and the Instruments of Labor" and would scavenge for dimes for ten cent chicken wing night at the local bar (which eventually threw us out).

One interesting bit was when a friend of his from NYC moved in when he started to attend the local university. He was a neat, spiritual guy who quickly learned to never leave his room, where he would often chant and meditate (which was oddly soothing when you'd take a bath, as the bathroom shared a wall with his room). After living there only a few months, he returned home to find us slobbing about around the TV and yelled "What's wrong with you people?" and went to his room. He didn't return after Christmas break, just sent for his stuff. We were such sad, pathetic creatures that we broke the Buddhist.
(bergec is filled with inertia, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 17:54, Reply)

Indoor camping
My first exposure to good, solid drug-taking came whilst visiting my Bro who was in his 3rd year of Uni. With instant and cheap access to good quality green stuff he'd been living quite a monged existence.....

He picked me up at the bus station with blood-shot eyes. Seemed a bit sheepish but I wasn't quite sure why (good old innocence!). Upon passing a KFC he asked if I could pop in and get him a Family Bucket. He couldn't go in himself due to The Fear. Fair enough, I thought - no idea what The Fear is but I do like a good KFC....

Upon arrival at his house I was shocked to see green mould covering the walls - pretty much everywhere. Plus foil and matches on the floor - pretty much everywhere. Mould, foil and matches - pretty much everywhere.

His bedroom was even better though - more mould, foil and matches but the best bit was his home-made tent in the middle of the floor, made of an old clothes-horse and various sheets / clothes. We squeezed in and sat down amongst various empty biscuit tins and cake / crisp wrappers. Fine place to catch up with my Bro over a cheeky KFC

He'd been living in the tent for an entire week, having acquired a very substantial quantity of green stuff. I believe the first time he'd left it was to pick me up. You can imagine the smell....

Easily the worst and best place I've ever stayed
(Mean Mad Mutski, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 17:10, 15 replies)

There's one house I luckily now have no reason to go near
Wavy lines and all that shite.

On Friday afternoons while I was at sixth form, I used to be free between 11.30 and about 4. Since the last lesson of the day was optional Foreign, I and friends would usually skip it and finish right on 11.30.

By midday, we'd be in the pub down the road that would serve us if we sat in the back room quietly supping and didn't act like students. This would usually follow on to me squirrelling the then girlfriend (Miss Harris, we'll call her) back to hers around 3 and doing my furious worst to her vadge until shortly before her parents got home around 6.

Guess what happened this one fateful Friday, kids? I'd finished dispensing the sweet loving and gone downstairs in only my boxers to make us a brew. Mr. Harris is at the kitchen table with an empty cup and plate and an open paper. I understood later that this meant he'd probably been there the entire three minutes we'd been loudly at it.

Realising as he looks up at me dejectedly that it might as well just be 'Dave' now, I offer, "Make you a brew, Dave?" He grunts a dismissive "Nah, lad". I get the brew on, choosing as the least awkward option to hover around the kitchen as the kettle comes to the boil. Dave cringes in disgust at my sweaty little presence, adding nothing to his initial grunt.

The daughter I’ve been enjoying is not Dave’s favourite. She’s his second daughter of two, the slightly more useless and less pretty one, the one that should really have been his only son, the one he sometimes in fact calls “Son” when he’s either pissed and jocular or pissed and bitter. I sense in him more dejected resignation than anger. My testicles peek out at him from behind my kidneys and thank him for his grown-up response to the situation.

After these few prickly minutes I carry the brews upstairs, knocking over one of Mrs H's tiny, square, wall-hung paintings as I go and smashing the glass out of the frame. I also spill some tea on my naked foot. I hop around briefly and loudly on the landing, which sits above the kitchen.

The girlfriend has realised her dad is home and cries a bit. I elect not to hang around till the lady of the house gets back. As far as I know, the girlfriend hid under the covers the rest of that evening in shame until the parents went to bed.

I found out the next day that Dave was home early from his factory job for the first time in 20 years because he'd been laid off. I haven’t been back since that day.
(gobsh, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 16:05, 4 replies)

small mammalian guest
I used to live on a houseboat. I have two kitties, both of whom spent their formative years onboard and bar the odd kittie overboard moment (QOTW – Near Death Experiences Involving Pets) , all was cosy.
One of these kitties – George – finally got round to doing some mousing. This was the derelict bit of Brentford by the canal, so there were plenty of mice to mouse.

Unfortunately his simple kittie brain managed to miss the concepts involved in pest control, eg, catch mice on boat, kill said mouse, present mouse corpse, mouse corpse burial at sea.

One evening he appeared with his first mouse in his mouth. I must say, i was rather pleased in a paternal way. He then placed the mouse at my feet as the mouse, sensing its opportunity had arrived, legged it.

This being a rather large dutch barge and having been brought onboard over a large watery gap in the mouth of a feline, he was stuck.

Every evening for the next two years, safe between the wood panelling and the foam insulation, Mickey lived a happy contented existence nibbiling through pretty much everything he could, dining off catfood and deftly evading capture.

I saw him once again before i moved out. He looked very well.
(magictorch, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 15:25, 4 replies)

An inadvertent golden shower
Many moons ago I stopped off at a nightclub where I knew my friend, G, would be DJ'ing in the hope of blagging a lift home. Instead after closing I found myself heading back G's place for a few drinks. As the night drew to a close and a need for sleep increased, I was directed outside into the old garage that G was "converting into a guest-room".

G's idea of a conversion basically entailed of bricking up the car door and replacing it with a house style windowed front door, placing an old rug on the floor and chucking in an old mattress with a couple of blankets. Niceties such as lighting, plastering the walls and a bed frame were still on the drawing board.

Still it was a bed to crash in, and that is all that mattered.

Come the morning, I awake like most people with need a pressing need for the loo. I make my way to the door and to my horror find it locked. I look for a latch but there isn't one as its one of those that lock at the handle. Then through the window I spot the key - the dozy drunken git has only locked me in from the outside and left the key in the lock. I quickly try his mobile, but it goes straight to voicemail. The garage isn't attached to the house, so there is no point hammering on the walls as he's not going to hear me. I'm left with two choices - piss on the floor, or find something to piss in.

Using the little available light I scour the floor until I find something suitable to go in amongst the building materials. In this case a half empty bottle of white sprit. With a sense of blessed relief I drain my bladder and it never felt so good.

Eventually G releases me from my real life 'The Sims' killing chamber and drives me home. On the way I confess about the white spirit and get him to pull in at the nearest B&Q where I buy him a replacement bottle. We have a laugh about it, and theres no harm done.

Until a couple of week later.

My phone rings. It's G. "What exactly did you piss in you bastard?!?" he thundered.

"That bottle of white spirit, its the only thing I could go in. Well that or the floor" comes my apologetic reply".

"It wasn't white spirit you fucking idiot, it was the fluid for my fucking smoke machine!". "Oh" says I.

The story comes out. G was doing a private function, a big 21st birthday party or similar. Of course he grabs his gear from the garage/guest-room - speakers, decks, lights, smoke machine and a bottle of fluid that looks remarkably similar to white spirit to a hungover houseguest in desperate need of something to piss in.

The nights going swimmingly and everyones enjoying themselves. G adds a bit of atmosphere by firing up the smoke machine. After a bit he notices a bit of a funny smell in the air which has only come along since the smoke machine has been turned on. Someone comments that it 'smells a bit like a urinal in here' at which point realisation strikes G and focuses his memory in only the way that discovering that you are currently covering 50 or 60 paying guest with your drunk mates two week old stale urine can do.

And that it how I accidentally gave a golden shower to a an entire room of people, and why I may possibly be a terrible houseguest.
( Kovacs Slogan free since 2003, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 15:24, 8 replies)

Booze, Beads and 1 girl in need of a cup
Many years ago when I was attending one of Glasgow's fine educational institutions I had the pleasure of sharing a flat with the president of the student union (among others) for a summer. For the most part it was an unremarkable relationship, to the point that I can't actually remember his name.
However one weekend his 16 year old brother came to stay for a weekend. Being the nice friendly chaps that we were we decided to take him out for a few beverages. So after many a knockback we inevitably ended up at Glasgow's (not so) finest nightspot - the garage as they were the only ones prepared to accept his dodgy fake ID.
After much fun and drinking and dancing about like morons we noticed that Jock (not his real name I thought I'd just chuck in some casual racism) was nowhere to be seen. We hunted high and low until the club closed, then up and down suachiehall street for hours after. Had called police, hospitals everything. My flatmate is going out of his mind. Shitting himself and with the sun coming up (behind clouds, this is Glasgow) we returned home for about the 5th time to find young Jock on the doorstep with a look of terror on his face. After getting him inside and me sparking a doobie he proceeded to tell us this tale.
"Do you remember that bird I was dancing with? Well she invited me back to hers. When I got back she pounced on me dragged me straight to bed. Anyway I was just getting into it when she opened her bedside table and pulled out a string of beads and started feeding them up my arse!"
At this point we interrupt to ask why he had let her violate him in such a manner to which he speepishly replied that it was his first time and he didn't want her to stop taking his young cherry if he refused the bum-beads.
So he continued.
"Right so like a minute later I start coming and when I do she rips the beads out of my arse and I shat myself. I looked around to see the mess I had made and when I looked back she was rubbing handfuls of my shit into her tits"
*I have by this stage lost and semblance of sympathy and am on the verge of doing myself a serious injury through laughter*
"Next she jumped up and asked was I coming for a shower,so I had to have a shower with her then she came back in and whipped the RUBBER sheets off the bed, stuck on some clean cotton ones and climbed in inviting me in with her. I didn't know where the fuck I was or how to get home so I had to lie awake next to her till the sun came up and I could go outside and flag a taxi."

He arrived in Glasgow as a cocky young boy and left a broken dishevelled wanksock of a man

Now, everyone, imagine that is what happened to you when you lost your virginity.
I bet it was a fucking long time before he accepted an invitation "back to mine" from a bird in a club.

Sorry it was so long, but I hope you get the years of enjoyment out of that story that I continue to have.
(Figmaus, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 15:12, 13 replies)

Classic
A while ago I visited a mate, Bob, in another city, and was introduced to Roger, the lodger. I was a little surprised that Roger and Bob seemed to get on, as they were rather different - Roger was quietly spoken, neat and tidy, and rather refined; we, on the other hand, were loud, drunken slobs with a voracious appetite for high-grade pharmaceuticals.

I queried Bob about this one night, and he told me to come and visit Roger in his room - there were two things that I needed to know about Roger, which would explain all.

Firstly, Roger was a stunningly brilliant classical guitar player. Bob asked him to give a demonstration, and it was like a choir of angels had come down to give us a personal recitation. Well, I knew Bob enjoyed all kinds of music, but that didn't seem enough to explain why he liked Roger so much -- and more importantly, why Roger wanted to live with the demon spawn of Pan and Dionysus. I conveyed as much with an eyebrow.

"And here's the other thing," said Bob. Roger shifted his chair around a little, to reveal a video camera which was set up on a complicated, hand-built bracket in the corner of the window. He then opened a cupboard, which was full of tapes, all dated and labelled.

Roger had an extensive collection of videos of the girls who lived in the student dorms directly opposite his window, and who had a refreshingly relaxed attitude to such irritations as window blinds and shower curtains...

And you know, classical guitar makes a much better soundtrack to voyeur porn than the usual "Wakka Wakka" 70s nonsense...
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 14:28, 11 replies)

I am a bad house guest
Some years ago, I pulled a friend of a friend while out on the lash. The next morning he was very keen to get rid of me. It didn't take long for realisation to dawn on me that I'd been sleepwalking and pissing again.

Apparently, I got up in the middle of the night and started pissing on his bed. He held a cup underneath the stream to catch it all then stupidly gave me said cup to dispose of. So I threw it out of the window.

Never saw him again. Can't think why.
(badfox1 wonders who he's played by this episode on, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 13:52, 1 reply)

Stop it!
I used to live with a guy, let's call him Gary. We were two guys, just out of university and embarking on London life from the little two bedroomed, rented flat in one of the less pleasant outskirts of the capital.

One Saturday, I came home from work to find a flat full of people in the midst of a party, I was late, but worked hard to catch up. Eventually, people started to decide it was time to sleep. Somehow, my flatmate and I ended up in the same bed, my bed (no, not like that) and the first thing I remember was waking up to see him standing in the corner of my room, urinating copiously.

As much as I shouted (and believe me, I shouted), he wouldn't stop, merely glancing round at me with the annoyed face of someone who is being shouted at when they are trying to pee.

He finished his business, shook off and came back towards the bed. At which point, I rapidly left the bed.

Looking back at him, now asleep once more, surrounded by a wet patch, I wondered what to do, so I went looking for somewhere to complete my night's sleep. The lounge and kitchen were both full of sleeping bodies and I expected his room to be full as well (surely he wouldn't have chosen to sleep in my bed if his own was free?), but on entering his room, found it empty. Gratefully, I collapsed into his bed and fell asleep.

In the morning, the door opened and in he came. "Why are you sleeping in my bed?". "Because you pissed in mine". "Oh, I wondered what the wet patch was".

In his defence, he did spend the rest of the day cleaning.
(stewiegriffin, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 13:28, Reply)

The most disturbing gift from a house guest...
...was finding two freshly laid turds in my cupboard following a party, and then discovering that somebody had also vomited inside the fridge.

Fucking students.
( rofl harris, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 12:26, 4 replies)

Students!
No matter how fit she is, or how poor you are, when in halls in your first year, don't let your girlfriend sub-rent her room and move into yours. You won't have sex 24/7, you won't save money as the spare will go on getting the fuck out of there at any available opportunity, and you'll very nearly kill each other.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 10:55, 6 replies)

In my first year of Uni in England
One of our housemates was from Romania, Anna, and she was generally a nice girl. Quiet but nice. After a few weeks of getting to know my other housemates we came to realise she was extremely quiet, a workaholic and was OCD about cleanliness. She would come home from the nursing degree she was studying, retreat to her bedroom and not be seen again until 8AM the next day and would never eat in the kitchen as it was 'filthy'.

Fair enough we were students but we weren't filthy

Anyway, one Friday night while watching Green Wing with my then girlfriend and our housemate, John, when Anna came in with tears in her eyes. She said that she was hoping to have a bath but she couldn't due to the filth in the bath....

"You English say there are smears of filth?...it's horrible and I can't live like this" and started to cry

I will point out that this student house is a house of mature students. Everyone of us was over 25 and we kept that house in good shape. That day John had scrubbed the bathroom from top to bottom, so we looked at each other a little confused when she made this statement.

Me and John rushed up the stairs expecting to find some kind of dirty protest, shit smeared all over the bath or a huge coiled turd over the taps, or even explosive diarrhea. However as we ran in our noses were assaulted with the overwhelming smell of Flash All-In-One cleaner. It smelt like a musical, sweet and sickening, like Mary Poppins had been in and cleaned it only minutes before.

"Over there!" said Anna tears streaming and pointing to the bath. Me and John edged closer to the bath and peered over and there it was.......staring back at us, mocking our every attempt at cleaning.....

A pube......maybe......one solitary, curly black hair was in the bath.

"YA MEAN THIS!?" shouted John in his Newcastle accent, "Fooks sake man!", grabbed the shower head and in 2 seconds it was gone.

"That's your idea of clean!?" said Anna and retreated to her room again. From that day on she showered at the local leisure centre....in Eccles....I'd say the gutter was cleaner but each to their own.
( Bamboo Steamer, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 10:47, Reply)

Bonus story!
I've already answered this QotW, but I've been inspired by more recent stories.
A chap I know, a shy, retiring gay man, was terrified of his flatmate. He could hear him through the walls at night, muttering obscenities: You fucking fucker, I'm going to fucking kill you, I'm gonna get you all, you absolute bastard, oh no you don't, etc.

It was me, playing online games with my headset on. In my defence, I wasn't talking that loud, the walls are just made of paper.
(universalpsykopath loves what you've done with your hair., Tue 11 Jan 2011, 10:18, 5 replies)

Video Nasty
One night my upstairs neighbours decided to trick their hugely megacamp flatmate, lets call him Cameron.
So Cameron arrived home from work one night to find his flatmates indulging in some "mexican acid."
Having been invited to join in the tripping Cameron admits it would be his first time taking acid and he has heard a few horror stories and he is a little bit frightened of the results. So after much reassurance that everyone would take care of him and he would suffer no bad effects Cameron was coming around to the idea and it was with some trepidation that he accepted his first "mexican acid tab".
Now is perhaps a good time to point out that there was no acid it was just little squares of paper with the ubiquitous acid smiley face drawn on.
Cameron was instructed that the best was to take mexican acid was to lick the tab and stick it to his forehead, then sit back and enjoy the results. After a few minutes his flatmates started describing the wonderful array of effects this wonderdrug was having on their senses. Not to be left out Cameron started joining in and by his own admission was soon "tripping off my face".
Shortly afterwards everyone started laughing and he was told it was only a wind up at which point he flew into a rage and went to his room.
The next morning he was gone, had moved all his stuff out during the night as his flatmates slept and as a final parting gift he took a shit INSIDE the video recorder.
A slight overreaction in my opinion, but fantastically surreal also.
(Figmaus, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 8:29, 7 replies)

The Anti-Kev, a bit of a pea
as i've already mentioned, my best ever houseguest was Kev. the worst was my ex, Paul, who shall henceforth be known as Creepy Thin Man, or CTM.
CTM turned up on my doorstep a few months after we'd broken up, covered in blood. seems he'd been attacked by a bloke for chatting up his underage daughter. he begged me to let him stay for a while, as he was scared of going home. like a prize-winnig tit, i agreed. i made it clear immediately that any bedroom privileges he may have had in the past were no longer available and he'd have to sleep on the couch.
for the first few days, it wasn't too bad. we'd never lived together before, so we were being a bit polite with each other.
that didn't last.
when i went to bed, i'd tell him not to leave the telly on all night as electricity isn't free and i'm not made of money. he said of course, he'd have it switched off by 1 a.m. however, as my bedroom was next to the living room, i'd wake up in the morning and be able to hear the telly. unfortunately, as soon as the sneaky little bastard heard me getting out of my very squeaky bed, he'd switch it off and pretend to be asleep.
during the whole time he stayed with me, he never gave me any money for food or bills, claiming that he owed all his benefit money to his mum to pay off some massive bill. yes, i should have thrown him out, but like frodo faced with gollum, i felt pity for him. he told me his mother hated me, which i can understand as my mother has been like that with mine and my sisters' boyfriends. it's just a mum thing. so, i continued to feed and house this parasite for six months, stretching my meagre budget to its limits and beyond.
one monday, i woke up to find him gone. the telly was on, there was a sink full of dishes, all my smokes had vanished and there were blankets strewn across the floor. of him, however, there was no trace. knowing how weird he can be, i decided i'd wait till hhe got back, then get him to tidy his mess up.
by tuesday afternoon, i was getting a bit anxious. i'd called his mobile, which was switched off. eventually, i phoned his mum. we had a good old chinwag, me and his mum. seems she really liked me and was upset when we split up. since moving in with me, CTM had told her that we were getting engaged. it also turned out that although he did indeed owe her a very large sum of money, he hadn't been giving her a penny of it. he'd told her he was giving all his cash to me for household bills.
to say that i was pissed off was an understatement.
wednesday passed, still with his phone switched off and no sign of him. as i was about to turn in for the night, the phone rang. it was him. he wanted to talk to me. i had a few choice words for him, so i told him to come round.
when he arrived, it all came out. he'd saved all his money to go to leeds and shag some munter he'd met online. he got there to discover she wasn't the nubile 19-year-old model she'd claimed, but a 40-year-old housewife. he still stayed a few days to shag her. that is, until her husband got home. the worst part is, he actually couldn't see what he'd done wrong and thought i'd welcome him back with open arms. his arms were holding his bin-bagged belongings in record time and i ushered him forcefully out of the door, ignoring his plaintive mewlings that he'd done nothing wrong.
he's been stalking me a bit lately, i think i may have to give him a smacking.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Tue 11 Jan 2011, 0:22, 7 replies)

[some tedious pun about David Guest and the television program House]

( Dr Preference AjcuiVd289, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 23:28, 1 reply)

Hiding in the bed
Does this count? It's about a guest in a house, so yeah, I suppose it does.
The story doesn’t feature me but two of my close friends. We’ll call them Ray and Ashley. They had been out drinking together, throwing a few abstract shapes on the dance floors of various bars and were suitably drunk. Ray had happened to pull a tasty little blonde lass named Chloe early on in the evening, and Chloe and her mates had joined the two inebriated rapscallions on their jaunt around the pubs and bars for the rest of the night. A great time was had by all I’m told; sambuca shots were downed, jugs of cocktails were shared, and the newly acquainted group shared laughs aplenty.

Eventually, 2am came, and with it, closing time. The gang made their way over to a kebab van as is the norm after a hefty drinking session. Food was purchased and Chloe was intent on going back with Ray for the night. As Ashley had already arranged to stay at Ray’s as well, the trio finished their food and headed for the taxi rank.

The taxi journey itself was uneventful; I’m not sure if Ray tried to get his fingers wet or not, but with Ashley sat in the back of the taxi with him and Chloe, it made things rather awkward; after all, he didn’t want his best mate to look like a gooseberry. Time was passed with drunken conversation and banter, rather than the attempted sneaky blowjob Ray had been hoping for. Soon, they arrived home and headed for their bedrooms, with Chloe obviously joining Ray in his king size bed, and Ashley heading off to the spare room to sleep on a single mattress

The inevitable happened; Ray and Chloe exchanged bodily fluids and then passed out, whilst Ashley failed in a half-hearted attempt to relieve himself of his own bodily fluid before falling asleep. However, at around 4am, he woke from his drunken stupor with a raging headache and decided to go downstairs to get a drink of water.
To get downstairs, Ashley had to pass Ray’s bedroom, which was on the opposite side of the landing. Still drunk and feeling a little mischievous, he decided to take a peek into the bedroom to see what the two lovers were up to. He sneaked over to the door slowly, trying to avoid the creakiest floorboards. Then, he opened the door slowly, so there was a gap big enough for him to slip through. As he peered over at the bed, he could see both Chloe and Ray asleep, with Chloe on her back nearest the wall, and Ray in the centre of the bed, facing her. The cover was pulled over both of them.

Dismayed at not even seeing a female nipple, let alone a hint of boob, Ashley saw how snug they both looked in the big spacious bed. It looked incredibly inviting, so, forgetting the reason why he had got up in the first place, he decided to get in with them. He tiptoed across the bedroom, pulled the corner of the duvet back and slipped in. Then, he pulled the cover over his whole body including his head and promptly fell asleep.

Ashley woke feeling hot. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been asleep and he struggled to remember where he was. Then he heard movement next to him. Still he stayed under the covers, racking his hungover brain, trying to retrace his movements. Unexpectedly, he heard a small groan. It was a female groan, he was sure of it. Everything came flooding back to him. He knew exactly where he was.

Peering from the top of the duvet, Ashley saw that it was still quite dark, but he could make out the figure of Chloe sat on top of Ray, riding him like a nimble jockey. Ray was laid next to Ashley in the bed, with hands behind his head, unaware that his mate was next to him. Ashley’s initial feelings of shock and then slight horniness quickly dispersed; he now felt like a complete pervert and at a complete loss as to how he could get out of the situation. He couldn’t sneak back out of the bedroom as they’d easily see him, and he didn’t really want to take the chance that Ray and Chloe would fall back asleep once they’d finished their energetic early morning ritual. Instead, he chose another option. An option that has ensured this story gets told time and time again amongst friends.

Keeping his legs flat to the bad, Ashley thrust his back and head forwards up off the mattress so that he was sat bolt upright. The duvet cover slipped off of his face, revealing him like a prize on a game show. As he reached the position where his back was completely vertical, he waved his right hand in a cheery fashion and said a hearty ‘Helllllooooooo’.

Chloe immediately grabbed for something to cover her tits with and jumped off Ray’s cock just as quick as she’d hopped on. Still, Ashley sat in his bolt upright position with a huge grin on his face, maintaining the little wave with his hand, just staring into the same space. Chloe was now screaming at him asking him what the fuck he was playing at and Ray was chuckling to himself, still slightly pissed and a bit annoyed that his early morning shag had been rudely interrupted. After a good 30 seconds of waving, Ashley rolled off the edge of the bed, did a forward roll and left the room, crying with laughter.
(Monkey the Chicken Twitter: death_stairs, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 21:40, 5 replies)

I have a lifesize cardboard cutout of William Shatner
that borrowed money and never paid it back. It's my worst flat mate.
(apeloverage committed the vile act of onanism on, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 21:06, Reply)

I had a French flatmate
who shouted at me "please you will bloody well knock when you come in here".
I'd just got back from work, and walked into my own bedroom, where he was sitting in front of my computer masturbating to "Bikini girls".

Also he used to play basketball in the corridor whilst listening to Britney Spears.
( browser still relating boring anecdotes into a void on, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 17:46, 5 replies)

destruction derby
a first, I'll try to keep it short.
Some years ago, a hard of luck workmate and a nice guy lost his home and was stuck, moved into our spare room (rent free) and half filled the garage while our children were put together 'just for a bit'. over the next seven (that's right) months he lost his job, and another, and another. Borrowed about £450 because he was embarrased to go back home to mum and dad at the age of 35 (we didn't see that again). Inexplicably still got pissed a lot though. three weeks in he was given an old vw golf by a mate so he could get a driving job, this didn't start one day and sat on our drive for almost a year. after we eventually turfed him out, I tried for three months to get contact before selling some fishing gear and his alloys left in the garage, (£400- thank you.) the coup de grace was having a friend take the golf and make it a banger for a local destruction derby. we filmed this, and eventually he came back looking for the car I gave him the tape and watched his face. Well worth the extra £50. wish i'd filmed that too.
( Filthy narwhal titty titty tits tits tits, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 17:16, 1 reply)

The funniest thing i can remember
from a house party was when a school friend decided it would be fun to nick the hosts mum's vibrator and simulate a blow job with it...The look on her face when we had told her where it had most definately been...She wasn't the sharpest tool.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 16:03, 14 replies)

Man, this tune's SICK.*
In 1994, I formed a band with a H and A, couple of mates from school, and over the course of the summer we half-heartedly tried to come up with some songs. We struggled to formulate more than one slightly mopey descending sequence of minor chords, though. We were never going to be megastars at this rate. We wouldn't even manage to get a spot supporting giants like, er, Cud.

My parents and brother having gone away on holiday, I had the house to myself. I thought that this would present a great opportunity to have a practice session, so invited my bandmates across.

Predictably, we didn't get beyond our mopey four chords. We did, however, do ourselves proud with wine, beer and pizza before knocking things on the head for the night. A couldn't drive, and H was in no state, so I pointed them in the direction of the spare room.

A couple of hours later, I was woken by a knock at the door. H was standing there.
"Um, I've had a bit of an accident..." he offered. He'd woken feeling sick, hadn't been able to react in time, and lost the contents of his stomach on the bed. To his credit, he then had the presence of mind to gather the corners of the blanket together, and was now stood sheepish and half-naked on the landing with this improvised package of vomit in his hand. He was like the Sick Santa.

My bedroom was at the back of the house, above the patio. I opened the window and invited him to throw his gifts out. We'd deal with it in the morning.

God only knows what the neighbours thought when, to accompany their breakfast, they had the spectacle of H and A holding out the blanket like a painter's canvas, and me trying to wash the lumpy bits down the grid with a hosepipe.

*Yeah, I'm street like that.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Mon 10 Jan 2011, 15:15, 2 replies)